


sidewinder

by kasarin



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-09-01 11:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasarin/pseuds/kasarin
Summary: Wash is a rookie. Not as strong or fast or experienced as the rest of them. Uncertain; idealistic; chained by morality in a way that Maine hasn't been in a long, long time.But he's tenacious. Reliable. Loyal. Able to understand Maine without words. Gives the giant Freelancer his silence and doesn't judge. He's a good partner. Someone that Maine wouldn't mind calling a friend.Someone that, eventually, Maine calls his best friend — and the Meta calls an enemy.(Wash and Maine, from the beginning to the end.)





	1. Chapter 1

Sidewinder is, in short, cold. Really, _really_ fucking cold. Maine's armor regulates his temperature, keeping his body heat well within acceptable parameters. Still, as he looks at the numbers displayed on his HUD, he can't help the shiver that runs through him.

The fuck does the Project want with a planet this cold? Why are they scouting this place to begin with? Far as Maine can tell, the only thing it'd be good for is storing shit. Sure as hell wouldn't want to station anyone here — unless they'd really pissed someone off, he guesses.

"Are you okay?"

Maine turns his head to look down at the rookie. Agent Washington looks up at him, gold visor already dusted with flakes of snow. Maine doesn't answer, waiting for Wash to clarify. He doesn't have to wait long.

"I just— I thought I saw you shiver. Is your armor all right?"

Oh. Maine nods. Raises broad shoulders in a slight shrug as he grunts out, "Cold."

"You're telling me. These readings are ridiculous. Doesn't look like there's anything but ice on this whole planet."

Maine nods. Waits for Wash to continue.

"The Project really wants to build a base here?"

Maine shrugs again. Turns his gaze from Wash to scan their surroundings. Whatever the Project decides to do isn't their concern. For now, all they need to focus on is the mission. And that mission is locating a decent place to build a base. Might not find one, but they have to try.

With a jerk of his head, Maine indicates that Wash should follow. Then he twitches his wrist, beckoning the other Freelancer closer. Wanting him to stay near so that—

"Yeah. Wouldn't want to lose you in all this white."

Behind his visor, Maine blinks, startled, before his lips twitch up in a smile. Wash gets it. And that, right there, is why Maine doesn't object when he's paired up with the rookie.

The others are a different story. South complains (loudly) that Wash slows her and her brother down. On the flip side, Wyoming grumps that Wash lacks caution. York cuts to the quick, saying that Wash just isn't good enough to be in their squad. And Carolina? She just rolls her eyes and partners Wash with someone else. Only Connie and Maine don't seem to mind.

Maine wonders what Connie sees in Wash. Wonders if it's anything like what he sees.

Just as their instruments indicated, the planet is nothing but ice. They tromp through the snow in relative silence, only speaking when they spot a potential location. The quiet is companionable. Comfortable. Wash doesn't fill it with idle chatter, and Maine doesn't have to mute his teammate. It's refreshing.

The most promising spots turn out to be near cliffs and in canyons. Not great defensively, but not bad for hidden outposts. Most importantly, they're sheltered from the weather. Which, they find, is an issue that anyone stationed here will undoubtedly face.

"No can do, Agent." It's the pilot of their Pelican, stubbornly refusing Wash's request for pickup. "There's a storm moving in fast. You two will have to ride it out."

Maine growls a low, wordless threat. Hears the pilot falter, tone immediately shifting from flippant to placating.

"Look, you two are better equipped to handle this storm than my bird. End of story!"

Better equipped. Of course.

Wash starts to argue. Maine makes a sharp gesture — _"drop it"_ — and Wash hangs up with a huff. He can feel his teammate's eyes on him, searching for an explanation. Maine cycles through readouts on his HUD, checking the status of his armor. Wonders how many cold climate tests it's been through. Maybe this is the first one.

Wash keeps staring. He's never struck Maine as a _rookie_ more than he does right now.

"Check armor."

"What?" That's not what Wash was expecting to hear. Still, after a moment, he asks, "Okay. Check what part?"

"All."

The rookie sighs, irritated. Maine turns to look down at him. Doesn't say anything else. Just looms, unyielding.

"Fine! Fine. But I don't see how this is going to help us—… Oh."

Maine cocks his head to the side. Waits.

"There's a problem with my helmet. It's overtaxing other systems." A pause. "… It's overtaxing temperature regulation."

Wash sounds almost defeated. Maine only grunts, unsurprised. Wonders, briefly, if the _Mother of Invention_ noticed the problem before or after deciding to leave them planet-side.

Doesn't matter. Either way, Maine knows what he needs to do.

He jerks his head again — _"come on"_ — and Wash follows him without a word.

If the goal is to see how long their armor will keep them stable, Maine completely ruins that plan. As soon as they find shelter — a crevice carved into a wall of ice, not quite deep enough to be called a cave — Maine opens their bag of emergency supplies and starts stripping off his armor.

"What are you doing?"

Wash's voice squeaks when he's flustered. Maine looks down at the rookie's visor. Sees his own face staring back: clean-shaven and pale from too much time without sun, dark eyebrows raised in an expression that says, _"Isn't it obvious?"_

"Body heat."

Survival 101. They both know that.

"But…" Wash takes a breath. Composing himself, Maine guesses, though he can't figure out why. "Maine, your armor is fine. And mine isn't failing." The 'yet' goes unsaid. He wonders if Wash can hear it. "We don't need to— I mean, you don't need…"

Wash trails off. Maine's peeling down his bodysuit, skin prickling as the cold air hits his back and chest. Keeps pulling it down, not waiting for Wash.

"Fine! Fine." Wash yanks off his helmet, exposing red cheeks and messy hair. "But this _really_ isn't necessary."

The big man snorts and keeps right on stripping. After another moment of hesitation, Wash mutters a curse and starts unfastening his armor.

Their fire is a small one. There's nothing to burn on a planet made of ice; all they have are the materials packed in their emergency supplies. It's nice, though. Keeps their faces warm as they wait for their food to heat up. Smells a lot better than the chemical stink of a flameless ration heater — though they have those, too, tucked away with additional MREs. Maine hopes they won't have to use them. Fumes would be hell in a space this small.

The sleeping bag, on the other hand, is a big one. Well, big by normal standards. An extra extra _extra_ large, or something like that. Big enough for Maine to fit inside and stretch out comfortably. Or, as is currently the case, big enough for him to squeeze a much smaller man beside him.

Aside from his initial protest, Wash hasn't said much. He stripped to his underwear and crawled into the sleeping bag without looking at Maine. Settled on his side with his face towards the fire, back pressed against Maine's chest. Predictably, Maine hasn't said anything, either. He watches the fire with a slight furrow between his brows, one arm pillowed beneath his head and the other draped around Wash's waist. The quiet isn't companionable. Isn't comfortable. Maine doesn't like it.

But diffusing the awkwardness of the situation isn't something that Maine knows how to do. Mostly because he doesn't know what's so _awkward_ about it. They're doing what they need to do to survive. And it's working: Wash is warm against him. They're in no danger of freezing to death. So what the fuck is the problem?

Irritation makes him restless. He shifts in the bag, trying to get more comfortable. Feels more than hears Wash suck in a breath, _twitching_ where his bare skin touches Maine's. The giant Freelancer stills, trying to make sense of that reaction. It's almost like fear, only…

Curious, Maine lifts his head to try and see Wash's expression. What he sees are red cheeks and eyes squeezed tightly shut; lower lip drawn in and bit down on, like Wash is trying to silence himself.

Maine isn't good at subtlety. But there's really nothing _subtle_ about Wash's expression.

He lowers himself back down. Rests his cheek on the curve of his bicep as he studies the back of Wash's head. Messy blond hair that's close enough to smell — sweat and shampoo and the metallic tinge of armor. Wash is purposefully still, except for slow, even breaths. Trying to keep himself controlled. Trying not to show Maine how he's being affected.

A rookie. Not as strong or fast or experienced as the rest of them. Uncertain; idealistic; chained by morality in a way that Maine hasn't been in a long, long time.

Tenacious. Reliable. Loyal. Able to understand Maine without words. Gives him his silence and doesn't judge. A good partner. Someone that Maine wouldn't mind calling a friend.

Slowly, Maine shifts the arm resting on Wash's waist. Brings his hand in closer, until his palm lays flat on Wash's abdomen. He feels the other man's sharp inhale and deliberately rubs his thumb back and forth. Confirming that it's not a mistake. Not a careless movement executed without thought.

"Uh. Maine? What are you—…"

Wash doesn't finish the question, interrupted by Maine shifting his hand. Sliding it down, just slightly. When Maine pauses, waiting for permission, Wash continues, his voice unsteady.

"You don't have to do that."

That earns a snort that ruffles blond hair. He knows he doesn't _have_ to.

"I just mean that— If you don't want to, I…"

Maine cuts him off with a grunt. Leans forward until his lips brush the shell of Wash's ear. Speaks into it, voice quiet but no less rough, "Yes or no?"

This time, he hears the other man's breath. A sigh that seems to carry a weight that Maine doesn't understand. And Wash moves, closing his hands around Maine's wrist. Pulling him closer.

" _Yes_." It almost sounds desperate. Almost pained. And again: " _Yes_."

Maine doesn't stop to analyze it. He kisses Wash's earlobe and slides his hand down. Slips beneath the hem of Wash's underwear; isn't surprised to find the other Freelancer's already half-hard. He wraps his hand around Wash's cock and pauses, just for a moment, to listen to his partner's low moan.

That's a hell of a noise from just a touch. Maybe Wash is just vocal in bed. Or maybe Wash wants this more than Maine realized.

Probably just vocal. Makes the most sense.

Thoughts pushed aside, Maine ghosts the pad of his thumb over the head of Wash's cock. Feels Wash twitch as he starts to stroke — an easy, almost lazy rhythm. Wash keeps holding his wrist. Shifts his hips, rocking in time with Maine's movements … and rubbing his ass right against Maine's crotch.

Fucking rookie.

It doesn't take too long before Maine feels himself responding. Touch-starved, maybe. Or maybe his partner's enthusiasm is infectious. He doesn't know.

What he _does_ know is that, as soon as his cock nudges against Wash's ass, the rookie curses and twists in Maine's arms. Turns his upper torso until he can meet Maine's lips. Starts kissing him.

It's…

_Fuck_ , it's … something, all right. Maine can't put a word on it. Can't figure out why Wash seems almost _hungry_. Can't think of much beyond the strong body grinding against him; the hands holding his wrist in place; the lips against his own, so far beyond eager.

Emotional shit has always been difficult for Maine. And this is … emotional. Whatever it is. Wash is full of _emotion_ , and Maine's not sure what to make of it.

So instead, he focuses on what he's good at. He focuses on the physical. On Wash's dick in his hand, hard and hot and already leaking precome. On his own cock rubbing against his partner, still confined in too-tight underwear. Be better if he pulled them down. Probably be better for Wash, too.

It's easier to make them comfortable than to figure out why Wash is kissing him so earnestly.

Maine pauses his movements, ignoring the high-pitched noise of protest Wash makes. He fights Wash's grip on his wrist enough to catch the edge of his partner's underwear. Tugs it to make his intentions clear.

"Oh," Wash breaks their kiss to mutter. "Right."

Almost sounds embarrassed. Maine snorts. Lets Wash take care of himself while he tugs down his own underwear. And then they're skin-to-skin, and Wash is breathing fast. Maine doesn't know why. He rocks against his partner, cock rubbing against the cleft of Wash's ass, and—

It's like a fucking dam breaks. Wash starts babbling against Maine's lips. It gets screechy _real fucking quick_ , and it's hard enough to make out without Wash breaking off to kiss him again and again, but Maine gets the gist: Wash thinks Maine wants to fuck his ass, and he's not ready.

Fucking. Rookie.

A low growl and a firm kiss shut Wash up long enough for Maine to get out, "Not fucking you."

"Oh."

In his arms, Wash sags with relief. He opens his mouth again, probably to apologize. Maine cuts him off with a kiss. Wraps his hand around Wash's cock again. Resumes stroking. Doesn't let Wash make a noise until it's a moan against his lips. Then Wash brings a hand up to the back of Maine's head, fingers warm against his scalp, and holds him in place with a soldier's strength as he takes over their kiss.

Maine doesn't fight it. Still doesn't understand it. Thinks he likes it all the same.

With a little maneuvering, Maine shifts down far enough to get his cock between Wash's thighs. Then, as Wash keeps his thighs pressed together, Maine thrusts against him. Hears himself groan into their kiss. Feels Wash shiver against him, hips jerking as he fucks Maine's hand. Wash is smaller than Maine, but he's all muscle; he's _strong_ , and the space between his thighs is tight. It feels fucking _good_. Maine hears himself groan again. Feels Wash _shudder_ and tense, hips stuttering, and…

It's a coincidence. Has to be. There's no way Wash came just from hearing him moan.

Whatever the cause, Wash jerks against him, fingernails digging into Maine's scalp as he rides out his orgasm. Maine keeps stroking. Keeps Wash _writhing_ , lost in pleasure and shameless for it. In those moments, there's no uncertainty in the rookie. No hesitation. Just something raw and real and mesmerizing.

Wash comes down slow. Bats at Maine's hand when he's able to control his arms. Too overstimulated. Maine moves his hand to Wash's hip and kisses the side of his partner's neck. Presses his nose into blond hair as he rocks against Wash, listening as his partner works to catch his breath. Letting Wash bask in the afterglow.

It takes Maine longer to reach his peak. Stamina's a hell of a thing, and, unlike Wash, he didn't start this already worked up. The food's long since warm and the fire nearly out by the time Maine gets close. Wash doesn't seem to mind. He strokes the back of Maine's head, fingertips soothing the places where nails bit in. Kisses Maine, open-mouthed and eager, still filled with that emotion — that _need_ — that Maine can't name. He watches Maine, eyes bright in the dying firelight. Watches him and says "yes" again, voice packed with meaning that Maine can't…

He shudders. Ducks his head. _Snarls_ against Wash's shoulder as he comes. It's a sound that would scare most people, but Wash doesn't flinch. He holds onto Maine, and Maine lets himself fall into the pleasure. Lets himself get swept away in it, teeth bared and growling and _fuck_ —

_Fuck_ , it feels good to give in.

Dimly, he's aware that Wash is still rocking against him. Drawing out his orgasm, just as Maine did his. Part of Maine wants to ride it out. See if he can handle the stimulation for longer than Wash did. But that's … not something he can do. Not right now. Too intimate. Too much vulnerability.

It was okay for Wash to let his guard down. It's not okay for Maine to do the same.

So he draws back. Frees himself of that wonderfully tight space. Keeps his head bowed as he works to regain his breath. Wash keeps touching him, fingertips ghosting over Maine's scalp and the hand on Wash's hip. That, too, feels intimate.

… But it's okay, he guesses. It's okay to enjoy it. It won't kill them.

In the end, the cold doesn't kill them, either. They stay warm. They wait out the storm. And, when the Director demands to know why they removed their armor, Maine takes the blame.

It costs him a rank on the leaderboard. Maine isn't concerned. Next time the mission calls for death or destruction, he'll move back up. Always does.

Wash tries to apologize. Maine cuts him off. Backs him into an alcove where no cameras can see. Thumbs the release on Wash's helmet and pulls off his own just long enough to bend down and kiss his friend.

_"It's fine,"_ he says without words. That and, _"Shut up."_

When their lips part, Wash is grinning. Maine snorts and deliberately fucks up Wash's hair before jamming the rookie's helmet back on.

Sidewinder may be a cold, shitty planet. But, if he were to be sent with Wash again, Maine guesses it wouldn't be that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing Wash! /throws confetti! Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are all appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: archive warnings have been updated to reflect future chapters.

"Technically, we're not violating any regulations."

Maine looks down the length of his body at Wash and cocks an eyebrow. Wash doesn't see it. He's sitting cross-legged between Maine's feet at the end of the big Freelancer's bed, datapad in his lap displaying UNSC and PFL codes of conduct side-by-side. The smaller man's expression is pinched in concentration, eyes darting back and forth as he reads and rereads line after line of legal bullshit.

Maine wonders how much Wash thinks regulations matter. Wonders how the other man explains grooming violations as blatant as South's purple tips or Connie's hairstyle.

"It's a lot stricter outside of the Project," Wash continues. "The rules against fraternization are iron-clad. But, because our chain of command is so…"

Wash glances his way. From where he lays, Maine supplies the word with a gesture: holds his hand out and rocks it slightly, palm down.

"Exactly," Wash agrees. "It's unstable. So the rules we have to follow are more lenient."

Maine rolls his eyes. Could've told Wash that from the start.

"My point is," Wash carries on, a bite of annoyance in his tone at Maine's obvious disinterest, "the only rules that apply are the ones prohibiting sexual intercourse between active Agents. And all of _those_ define 'sexual intercourse' as … you know. Penetrative."

Wash's eyes stay fixed on his datapad. Maine studies his friend's face curiously. Wonders if Wash will ever stop getting flustered over the idea of penetrative sex. Wonders if he realizes that Maine's not going to ask for it.

As far as Maine's concerned, they can keep doing what they've been doing indefinitely. Engaging in friendly, purely platonic contact in public; stealing kisses in corners that the cameras don't cover; retreating to Maine's room after hours and stripping off each others' armor, like the feeling of skin-on-skin is the only thing that matters in the world.

Wash likes dominating their kisses, Maine's found. Likes taking control, one hand caressing Maine's cheek as the other holds the back of his head, keeping him still. Maine doesn't mind. Gives him more room to focus on other things, like pulling Wash tight against him on the bed. Or, if they don't make it that far, picking Wash up and pinning him against a wall.

Maine thinks that Wash might prefer the wall. Never fails to get him hard in a fucking instant.

The cabins aren't soundproof. Maine knows that. He relies on the crew's fear of him to ensure their discretion. Refuses to hold back as he drags one pleasure-filled moan after another out of his friend. It's amazing, the sheer range of noises that Wash can make. Amazing, how they're all laced with that emotion — that _need_ — that Maine still can't name. The one that never fails to make Maine just as desperate for contact as Wash.

Sometimes, that contact is the tight space between Wash's thighs. Sometimes it's a strong hand around his cock. Sometimes it's just grinding against the smaller man as Wash kisses him and murmurs, " _Yes_."

Maine tries not to think too hard about why that one word always pulls at something deep inside of him. Concentrates instead on dragging Wash over the edge; on _making_ him let go. He likes to watch Wash's walls crumble, exposing something powerful and visceral beneath. Likes it when Wash claws at him, swearing and shaking and teetering on that knife edge between 'too much' and 'not enough.' And when Maine loosens his restraint as well, letting himself be nothing but gritted teeth and animalistic snarls, Wash never flinches away.

What they have is enough. Fuck, it's _more_ than enough. Maine doesn't need anything else.

"That includes oral sex."

Maine blinks. Pulls himself from his thoughts and looks at Wash, confused. He's lost the thread of the conversation. Distracted by memories of far more enjoyable visits.

Noticing his confusion, Wash clarifies, "Penetrative sex. It includes oral sex."

The massive Freelancer maintains eye contact. Tilts his head slightly. Waits. It doesn't take long for Wash to start fumbling for his composure. Never does.

"I just want to make sure that's okay. That we're on the same page." Wash breaks eye contact and looks at this datapad again. This time, Maine reads it for what it is: avoidance. "You know, we haven't actually talked about any of this."

Maine watches for a moment longer. Sees the way that Wash's fingers fidget with the edges of his datapad. Wash is nervous, and Maine can't figure out why.

The big man tilts his head and asks, "Need to?"

Apparently, it's a stupid question. Wash turns back to Maine with a frown. "It would be _nice_ , yes," he replies, sounding annoyed. "We should talk about what this is. Establish some ground rules."

Maine's eyebrows rise. Why do they need rules?

"Because it's important, Maine," Wash answers the silent question. His voice is growing more heated. "Is this— Are we exclusive? Casual? Can we tell anyone about it?"

Perplexed, Maine remains quiet. It's not the right response.

"I don't know what you _want_ ," Wash continues, and there's a strange sort of urgency behind the heat of his words. "What do you want out of this?"

Finally, the combination of agitation, irritability, and urgency click together in Maine's mind. For some inexplicable reason, Wash feels _insecure_. And it's so ridiculous that the realization startles a short huff of laughter out of the big Freelancer.

Two seconds later, Wash's face clouds like a storm, and Maine realizes that was the wrong fucking reaction. Quickly, he pushes himself upright. Reaches out to grab Wash's arm before the other man's anger fully sets in.

"Sorry," Maine grunts. Wets his lips before he shrugs lightly and explains, "You're insecure."

"And that's funny to you."

Wash's voice sounds as cold as Sidewinder. Maine grimaces and shakes his head. Searches for words that won't piss his friend off more.

"Dumb," he finally settles on saying. Wash tenses; Maine quickly adds, "No reason." To feel insecure, he means.

Wash scowls at him. Maine shifts his grip and strokes his thumb against his friend's skin. Apologizing again, this time without words. He's always been better with actions than words. Always considered them more honest. Less complicated.

Wash continues scowling. Maine keeps waiting, stubbornly brushing his thumb back and forth. Still apologizing.

"You know," Wash finally breaks the silence, "you're _really_ bad at this."

Maine nods. He won't argue that.

"Talking is important. We have to do it sometimes."

Maine makes a face, but he nods again. He doesn't see _why_ it's important — but if Wash wants to talk, they can talk.

"We need to be on the same page," Wash repeats himself, anger slowly ebbing. "We need ground rules. I need to know what your expectations are."

His expectations…? Maine tilts his head, letting his confusion show. He's not trying to piss Wash off; he just doesn't get it.

This time, Wash doesn't get irritated. He sighs instead. Looks at him like _Maine_ is the rookie.

"Let's start with the basics…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to get the ball rolling again. Apologies for the delay; a cross country move took it out of me. Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are appreciated!


End file.
